Justified
by DeltaG
Summary: Jeff Nicholson, son of World War II veteran Jack Nicholson, signs up in the middle of 1967 to enter the war himself to experience what his father experienced. Leaving behind a heartbroken mother, a proud but sad father, and a sister who wishes he'd stayed, he finishes his basic training and is off to the jungle, where he'll get a taste of combat.
1. A Long Way From Home

**A/N: Any followers of Imjusthere61944 know this was one of his stories that were voted on during his last story, _Beyond Normandy_, and that _Above and Beyond_, won the voting. I have already messaged him asking permission to do this fic, and he has told me I can. Credit to Imjusthere61944 for the idea of this.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of Call of Duty, affiliates, game producers, any other things I forgot.**

_August 1st, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_1257/12:57 PM_

"_War is hell, and hell isn't much worse." _

"Joe, Joe! We make bang bang, I love you long time!" Cried one of the Vietnamese women on the street.

Private Jeff Nicholson knew better than to respond, and so did the four men sitting beside him in the uncovered truck. His dad had raised him good, and he wouldn't dig be bought into the locals pleas for money, for prostitution for just a few dollars. According to what many locals had been yelling at their daughters in garbled English, they were supposed to be out in their fields, working the paddies to feed themselves through the war.

The trucks roared through the dusty streets, leaving the women behind with just dust in their faces.

In front of Jeff was Pvt. Kristopher Johnson, who had been drafted early last year, gone through training, and then finally been placed in the Division with him.

To his right was Cpl. Troy Barter, who was also a new recruit like Jeff, but had been a supposed "good boy" in basic training and was promoted to fill an empty spot in the squad.

The man to the left of Johnson was Pvt. Xavier Wells, a tough young scrapper from Tennessee, who had been from a poor family in need of the G.I. Bill he'd heard about. So he signed up, went through training, and was now smiling that smile than only a country boy could master, his blonde wiry hair sticking straight out in all directions, his helmet in his lap.

The last man was Sergeant First Class Brian Ring, who was smoking a cigarette as the trucks roared on to their destination. The sergeant had seen some time on the front and wasn't making small talk with the others, instead staring into space through the smoke he blew.

"So, hick, you grow a lot of corn back in that lifeless state?" Johnson asked, looking at the kid, who just smiled back.

One of his front teeth were missing, but he still had that smile only country kids could pull off. "Well, I reckon the corn we did grow was pretty good tastin', but we never did grow much, even when the other farms did..." The boy stared off into space, probably remembering his family he'd joined up to support.

"Your mama ever tell you that you'd probably end up dead in this war?" Johnson asked after the country man looked over at him.

"My mama always told me ta keep a level head, never go chargin' in to the fight, and help my buddies... I supposed that'd be you guys now!" He broke into a wide smile and looked over at Jeff, who grinned back and nodded, his M14 rifle bouncing in the air as they hit a bump in the road.

"Oh, we'll get along just fine, hick." Johnson remarked, pulling out a pair of candy bars.

"The hell did you get that from?" Jeff asked, eying the draftee suspiciously as he unwrapped a bar and examined it.

Johnson bit into the chocolate and laughed, looking over at Barter, who unveiled his own pair of the sweet chocolate that Jeff missed from home.

"Oh, just a little present we took from the cooks back at camp... Little bastards were holding out on us." Barter replied and grinned, unwrapping one and handing the other to him. Johnson handed his other bar to Wells, who unwrapped it and began taking slow bites from the candy, savoring it. Poverty had taught the young country boy to love food, the taste of it, and the smallest amount of it. He would never pass up a scrap of food unless it was in the worst state in the world.

"You're not a country boy, hick, you're a regular street rat, nibbling on anything he can find." Johnson joked, getting a laugh from all but the sergeant, who was still back in his own thoughts.

Jeff's mind began to wander as the trucks rumbled on, girls still yelling at them as they passed, promising love for a long time. The prostitutes really should be in their paddies, instead of selling themselves to the G.I.s

_Jeff opened the door and stepped inside, the odor of his mother's cooking entering his nostrils. He gripped the papers in his hands and prepared for the lecture he'd get for his mother for joining up, but he knew his dad would be understanding._

"_Ma?" He called, and the woman's head peered around the corner of the doorway to his left, peering at him suspiciously. Usually when he returned home, he went straight to his room to continue reading, or head into the kitchen to get a snack before heading out again._

"_Yea, hon?" She asked, turning back to the kitchen where she was cooking something on the stove, the smell making Jeff's stomach growl._

"_Ma, I..." Jeff left it unfinished and stepped into the kitchen. His favorite dinner was cooking on the stove, a succulent steak, and his mother was preparing to cook more food for the dinner._

"_You what? Is something wrong?" She turned to him, her blonde hair swinging behind her as she stared at him, as if she was staring deeply into his soul. That stare had worked on Jeff before, and now he couldn't even think of lying to her about joining, nor could he put it off 'til later that night._

"_Ma... I..."_

The truck his a bump, and he was roused from his memories, the other men conversing in low voices. His chocolate bar was nearly gone, and he realized he'd been absentmindedly eating it as he remembered the day he'd broken the news to his family, the day his mother had cried, the the his father had smiled but been sad to see him go, the day his sister begged him to stay... He hated himself now, but he was her, and he had to fight.

"Hick, are you kidding me? No way you beat up that many kids when you was only twelve!" Barter yelled, eying Wells in a way that made Jeff think the country boy was a killer, a serial killer.

"Too true, sir. Now, ya see, these four guys was comin' at me, and I mean they was tryin' ta knock me out cold, so I ducked under 'em and kicked this one in the gut, and ya know how ya do when ya get hit in the gut, ya keel over and stuff, ya know? Well, he did that, and then these two others was tryin' t-" Wells got cut off.

"Private, if we wanted an account of your life, we'd ask you for it." Ring interrupted, blowing smoke at the private, who just stared at the sergeant, dumbfounded about what he'd done wrong. He'd been asked to give an account on his fight, not his life. He scratched his head in wonder as the group fell silent.

"_YOU WHAT!?" His mother yelled, grabbing the papers out of his hands and looking at them in a way that made Jeff compare his mother to a stalker, one that would watch their prey intently day after day, making sure they knew everything about them._

"_Jack!" His mother called after she examined the document, and voice called back softly._

"_Hold on Laura, I'll be there in a second!"_

_Jeff's father walked into the room, a newspaper in hand, a pencil in the other. His father had taken up crosswords and whatnot after the second world war as a distraction, and it seemed to keep him occupied, at least until he and his old friend Leroy Huxley got together._

"_Your son signed up for the military! He wants to go over to that damned country and fight a pointless war! Talk him out of it right now!" His mother demanded, pointing at Jeff while looking up at her taller husband._

"_Laura... there's nothing I can do, he's in the system now, and they'll get him for desertion if he backs out after he's joined... Would you want your boy to go to prison, honey?" His father asked, rubbing his forehead and leaning on the table._

"_It's safer than being in that country where the enemy creep around through their jungles and cut the throats of men who rest for a minute!" His mother screamed back, tears streaming down her face._

"_Life in prison, Laura." His father repeated, putting deep emphasis on the first word._

"_But... He can't go to war, Jack! He's barely of age, and now he's going to war... He's too much like you!" His mother countered, and Jeff felt uncomfortable watching his mother like this._

"_Too much like me? I left because of Robert, and you damn well know that! He called me a coward, and that was the last time I ever saw him! Can you imagine seeing your own brother for the last time and him calling you a coward, and you never seeing him after that! It's hell, Laura! I can't believe you would say that!" His father burst, the newspaper slamming onto the table, his face turning a deep red color as he looked down at his wife._

"_This isn't about your brother, Jack! It's about our son, and the fact that he went and signed up for the war without even telling us!" His mother whispered back._

"Nichols... You okay?" Barter shook his shoulder, and Jack realized he was near tears, remembering that day.

"Yeah... I'm fine." He responded in a dull tone, noticing Johnson and Wells were at it again, this time about how Wells had used to hunt small animals back in Tennessee, that he could hit a squirrel in the eye from over a hundred feet away with a .22.

"Bull_shit, _hick, and you know it!" Johnson exclaimed.

_August 1st, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_1502/3:02 PM_

The barracks was crowded, with three other squads occupying the small space, they were forced to share footlockers. Jeff was paired with Wells, who immediately stowed all of his family photos, his items, and his stash of rations he and Barter had gotten from the cooks in training. Jeff doubted they'd last a week in there, that an inspection would get him a punishment, but that was the country boy's problem, not his.

"Hick, ya got pictures of your pigs and other animals in there?' Johnson ribbed the young man, who took the comments like usual and responded in that manner of his.

"Naw, but they deserve a spot. Ol' Bessie was always a good cow, til last year... She died, but she lived a good ol' life, and ma and pa couldn't 'ave asked for more." The kid's eyes were misted over, but then they cleared up, and the upbeat manner returned as he looked over at Johnson.

"Well, this will certainly be an interesting time in 'Nam." Ring muttered, stowing his gear with his partner, Barter.

Jeff unpacked his bag and below the photos hung by Wells, he placed a picture of his mother, before she'd learned of him signing up. Next to her was his father's picture, him dressed up in his old outfit from WWII, his helmet resting lazily on his head.

Underneath that was his own picture, him smiling during summer of the previous year, his dad's arm around him, though he was off-screen.

Next to that was his sister's picture. Christina was fourteen, and was entering the rebellious stage he'd gone through, though she was still the loving child when they were alone together. Her blonde hair mirrored her mother's, and her smile was just as nice as his mother's as well, not showing too much teeth, but so genuine he nearly teared up.

Underneath them all, he had a family picture from when he'd graduated from high school, his outfit still on, his diploma in hand, all of them standing together. Written on the bottom edge of the photo was something he'd written himself, and would always remember.

_Jeff Nicholson, son of Jack Nicholson. Veteran of World War II, believer of peace and prosperity in the darkest of times._

**A/N: R&R, hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I am from Tennessee, and I believe that I captured Wells' accent quite nicely, but if you have any comments, feel free to post them in a review of just message me on my profile.**

**~DeltaG**


	2. First Taste

**A/N: Thanks to beastlynerd and Imjusthere61944 for reviewing.**

_August 2nd, 1967_

_South Vietnam  
_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_1456/2:56 PM_

"_Every time I go into that jungle, I realize that one of my men most likely won't return..." - SFC. Brian Ring_

"Hick, why the hell do you get the heavy fire-power?" Johnson asked the man walking beside him. The country boy smiled back, despite the heat and the annoyance of the sounds around them.

"I suppose I'm just a better shot than you." Wells replied, hefting up the M79.

"Quiet that up, you knumbskulls!" Ring whispered urgently, dropping down into a crouch. His M16A1 was aimed in front of him, at a tree just to his front and left. The leaves were rustling in the slight breeze, but obviously Ring had seen something.

They'd been dropped in via Huey earlier that morning in a search and destroy mission. They had been instructed to "hump the hills" in search of enemy recon teams as well as any other suspicious signs. If they made contact and escaped, they'd be able to radio in for extraction from the radio on Barter's back.

"Whaddya see, sarge?" Wells dropped beside him and inquired. The M79 looked menacing from where Jeff could see it, and one shot from that thing would most likely incapacitate an enemy or friendly, either by killing them or making them lose a limb.

"Tree, left side. See the glare coming from the middle every time that one leaf slips?" The sergeant answered, flicking the switch on his M16 to turn it to it's burst-fire mode, that would only enable it to fire in three round bursts per pull of the trigger.

It was rare to make contact on the first day out, let alone the same afternoon, so the sergeant was wary. His eyes could be playing tricks on him, but he wouldn't know unless they were shot at or he took a chance at shooting, most likely giving away their location to the Viet Cong if any were still in the vicinity.

"This doesn't make sense... If he's seen us, then he should've gotten one of us by now." Ring muttered, lowering his rifle. He turned to look at the other men and a shot rang out, and Ring keeled over, blood pooling from a wound in his chest, a fountain of blood spraying from it.

Jeff panicked. His instincts told him to drop to his stomach and he did, but then his rifle was up, and four shots were out of his rifle before he knew it, and he saw a flash of red, and then a body fall from the tree.

"HQ, come in, this is Bravo Charlie-3." Their callsigns differed from each person, Barter's being three, while Jeff's was six.

"Roger Bravo Charlie, we read you, how copy?" The reply came through loud enough for them all to hear.

"Copy HQ, we need that extract ASAP! Our sergeant is down and we're about half a klick south of the evac zone." Barter read back to the man on the other side of the communications. He motioned for them to begin moving and they did, with Jeff and Johnson dragging the still-bleeding sergeant first class with them.

Jeff felt sick. Seeing that spray of blood from the man's chest as he fell from the tree had made him think. Did he have a family? Did he have a loving mother and father who didn't know they'd never see their son again? Did he have his own family to love and take care of? A son, a wife, or daughter to be responsible for?

He nearly vomited, but swallowed the thought and focused on getting to the extraction zone.

_Jeff felt terrible. He'd left his parents arguing in the kitchen and gone up to his room, where he sat down on his bed and buried his head in his hands. He'd known his dad's brother had died on Okinawa back in the last war, but he never knew the last thing ever said to his father was that he was a coward._

"_It's not my fault..." He muttered to himself, and looked in the mirror. He saw a man with short black hair, green eyes, and a sad look in those eyes, as if he knew what would happen when he went across the ocean to the war, to the jungles where the enemy hid themselves._

"_It's my life, not her's..." He muttered to himself, knowing his mother was only thinking of the best for him. He couldn't control his entire life much longer though, and it was high time she realized that._

"Medical chopper is two mikes out, Bravo Charlie, evac is about two behind that." The radio awoke Jeff from his memories and pulled him back to his situation. Dragging a wounded and probably dead squad leader and awaiting an evac on top of them.

Jeff did quick calculations in his head. A mike was a minute, so that meant they'd have to wait about four minutes before they even thought about being safe.

"Pop smoke, Wells." Barter ordered, dropping to a crouch in the middle of the clearing. Jungle surrounded them, and it was fair to say that this would be one of the only clear areas around for miles.

Wells pulled the pin from one of his smoke grenades on his belt and threw it on the ground, where purple smoke spouted out and into the air.

"Confirm smoke color." Barter said into the radio.

"Color is purple. Confirm Bravo Charlie?" The man on the radio confirmed the color.

"Confirmed." With that Barter went silent, the only sound heard was the hiss of the smoke grenade as it continued to spout the purple smoke into the air.

The whirring of the helicopter blades soon filled the air, followed by the loud but satisfying noise of the M60s going to work on the jungle around them, tearing up the vegetation and causing several trees to spout bark and wood, leaves to fall, and dirt to spray up in all directions.

"GO!" Barter yelled, grabbing Ring under his left arm and with assistance from Wells dragged him over to the helicopter that landed on top of the smoke, its doors already open. They pushed the sergeant into the helicopter and then spun around as it took off, the M60s still raking the landscape until it was unable to see them.

"One mike out, Bravo Charlie." The radio crackled, making Jeff's spirits lift. He would soon be out of the jungle, back at base where he'd be able to rest for a few days before... going back out here, where he'd certainly get shot at again.

After what felt like an hour of waiting the chopper slowly descended to them, its own M60s spraying at the vegetation just as the previous copter had, spraying dirt all around.

They climbed into the chopper in an orderly fashion, Barter first, Jeff next, Johnson after him, and then Wells.

"First taste of combat, eh? How's it feel Nichols?" Barter asked the man. He was being a hypocrite in Jeff's opinion, as it had also been his first taste of the fight as well.

"It was... Sickening, sir." Jeff replied, his mind wandering back to his home.

_His sister entered his room. She looked shaken and had probably walked in on their parents arguing, and had quickly exited, probably hearing the reason for their arguing in the first place._

"_What did you do?" She asked. So she hadn't heard. Oh, how it would break her heart when he told her._

"_I..." He stammered. He couldn't break it to her like this._

"_You did what? What could make them yell like that Jeff?" His sister demanded, looking him straight in the eye. He had inherited that look in her eye from her mother, and he knew he couldn't lie to her._

"_I joined the army." He managed to say._

"Nichols, wake your ass up!" Johnson was yelling into his ear. Below them he could see the base, and with the base the groups of tents they slept in, the landing space for helicopters, the pub for men who liked to have a drink every now and then.

"Huh?" He shook himself awake as they landed and looked over at Johnson, who was eying him suspiciously.

"You alright, bud? You look like you got somethin' on your mind." Johnson asked him.

"I'm fine." Jeff replied, knowing he was wrong. Shooting that man had made him think the thoughts he'd had earlier, and now he was having them again, wondering if the dead man had a family.

_August 2nd, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_1729/5:29 PM_

Jeff sat the beer down and rested his head on the counter.

The enlisted mens' club was crowded at the moment, and he was having trouble getting his thoughts together.

To many the club was just a place to grab a beer and brag about their kills, their souvenirs, and their skills with their weapons.

The first person that Jeff had met was standing by the door. He had shook his hand, and then the man had asked him if he would like to touch his necklace. Around the necklace were ears, pierced so that they would swing around every time the man turned his head.

Jeff had felt sick and politely declined, and then had strode over to the bar and ordered that beer.

"'Ey, kid. You one of those new guys who let Ring die?" The man next to him suddenly asked.

Jeff looked up at him. The man's helmet was off, revealing shot brown hair, a menacing look on his face, and a scar running the length of his eye down to his chin. The thing that Jeff noticed the most was the necklace of ears that this man also carried.

"We didn't let him die..." Jeff muttered, and the man stood up, looking down at the young man.

"You didn't let him die, eh? Why did he come back two minutes earlier than you, with blood all over his fucking clothes? Was I imagining it? Do you think I hallucinated about one of my friends dying?" The man had started to yell, and now all was silent. Even the bartender had stopped cleaning the glass and was looking over at him.

"I'm going to tell you a story. I'm sure this won't mean shit to you, but you should hear it anyway." Jeff replied. The man was slightly unnerved, but nodded slightly, barely enough for Jeff to catch it.

"My dad was in World War II... You ever known anyone who was back in that war?" Jeff asked the man.

"No, never knew anyone who survived it, at least." The man replied.

"Well, my dad was in it after Normandy. Oh, he went through St. Lo, Chambois, all those areas, you know? Then came the last offensive the Germans ever made... The Battle of the Bulge. You ever hear of the Battered Bastards of Bastogne?" Jeff paused and asked the man.

He nodded and motioned for Jeff to continue.

"Well, my dad was in Bastogne... Him and Huxley, and Salvadore Guzzo. Now, when they were just about to get out of it, they were forced to retreat from those woods, and they took refuge in a building. Then this Tiger tank rolls up the street. Ya ever heard of one of those?"

"Used to be one of the best tanks in the world, right?"

"Yeah. Well, Huxley just happens to have this AT mine, and he was planning on taking it out to destroy that tank, but he probably would have died. When Hux was about to go do it, Guzzo takes the mine, and disables the tank with it. Only problem was... He had to sacrifice himself to do it, but he saved Huxley and my dad doing so." Jeff finished, and took another swig from the beer glass.

"That's something stupid to do." The man remarked, sitting back down.

"What's your name and rank?" Jeff asked.

"Private First Class Brian Schmidt. Not that it's anything to you." The man replied, eying Jeff with hatred.

"Well, Schmidt... Maybe one day when you're out in the jungle, maybe you will have to make a choice like Guzzo. Then maybe you'll suffice up to the standards of a true soldier, but now... You disgust me." With that Jeff slid the beer glass across the counter to the bartender, who quickly took it.

As Jeff walked back to his tent, his mind wandered back to the day his dad had told him about Salvadore Guzzo, the man who had given his life for him and Leroy Huxley.

"_Son, have I ever told you about my old friend Salvadore Guzzo?" His father asked a thirteen year-old Jeff._

"_No, dad. Was he like Mr. Huxley?" Jeff asked back, throwing the baseball back across the yard to his father._

_His father caught it and smiled, obviously thinking back to the days of his service. "Salvadore was one of the best men I've ever met. He was also the most insane man as well."_

_Jeff caught the ball and switched it to his right hand. "Was he with you and Mr. Huxley in the war, dad?"_

_His father smiled and nodded. "Salvadore was the man who saved me and Mr. Huxley. Without him I wouldn't be standing here with you. Huxley wouldn't be a brilliant engineer, and I would've never married your beautiful mother."_

"_Did he die, dad?" Jeff threw the ball._

_His father caught it and a sad look overtook his face, and his eyes looked misty even from across the yard. "Son, he gave his life in Bastogne for me and Leroy. He destroyed a tank that would have killed us all."_

Jeff smiled. He missed playing catch with his father.

If he survived, he made a mental note that that would be the first thing he did with his dad when he got back home.

_Dad, if I ever get home... First thing we'll do is play catch._

**A/N: The first part up to when they get back to the base isn't my best writing. I'm sorry, I wrote it when I didn't have much inspiration, but it came back when he got back to base, and I was able to salvage a bit of it to make a good ending in my opinion. Review if you want, but if you don't want to, it doesn't matter. If you have any suggestions to add to this, review or message me.**

**~DeltaG**


	3. Back at Base

**A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed, namely beastlynerd, video games and stuff, and Trainalf. More thanks to Imjusthere61944 for allowing me to do this fic.**

_August 3rd, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_1339/1:39 PM_

"_Every time we kill one, it looks like they just come back from the dead." - SFC. Brian Ring_

Three days. Jeff had three days before he and his squad returned to the jungle. It wasn't the jungle that was hell, as he'd thought, but really the waiting. Listening to men in the enlisted mens' club didn't help, and only added to the nervousness growing on Jeff.

Instead of promoting Barter to sergeant and allowing him to take command of the squad, a replacement was brought in. He was Staff Sergeant Jackson Newell, who came from New York. His story was that he volunteered out of patriotism, but many men suspected that he was drafted and was trying to make the best of it.

"So you cut off his ears?" Johnson asked the man sitting next to him. At the table were Jeff, Johnson, Wells, and a sergeant named Zackary Fletcher. Fletcher was showing the man his necklace of ears that he'd gotten the idea of making from seeing the many others with them. Jeff knew this wasn't the worst thought, as he'd seen many men walking around with dismembered thumbs clipped to their belts or strung up on their bandoliers.

"Both of 'em. Bastard had it coming. Ya see, we were in the ambush spot, ya know? All cozy and stuff, waiting for them to walk in, and he shot my best friend." Fletcher paused here and took a cigarette from the ashtray in the middle of the table and put it in his mouth. Just a while ago it had been only full of Johnson's, but now Fletcher had joined in and they'd had to step out and empty it every so often.

"Well, that pissed me off. This bastard has six men to choose from, and he goes for the one that had the best spot. I mean, I could barely see him and I was the one next to him! I let loose! That gook never saw what hit him, and I swear I hit him right 'tween the eyes!" Fletcher was excited now, his eyes wide and glowing.

"I cut him. I cut his ears off, both of 'em. Not quick and easy, either, I took my time on him, making sure I got it perfect... it's what Porter would have wanted..." He trailed off, tossing the cigarette into the ashtray, and took another from the open pack he had on the table. He lit it and leaned back, obviously deep in thought.

"Well, that must have been hard." Jeff said after a short silence, looking at the man.

"Yeah..." He simply replied.

Jeff remembered a time his father had been sitting in the living room, playing his piano. He had inquired about the reason he'd taken up piano.

_The sound of his father's piano filled his ears, snaking a warm feeling down his ear canal, through his skin, straight to his bones. It warmed his heart, and he was proud his dad could play the instrument, and he wished he could play it himself. The instrument was beautiful in his opinion and deserved a bigger audience than just their family._

"_So, Dad... Why don't you ever perform for more people?" Jeff asked, sitting down next to his father on the piano bench._

"_Son, did I ever tell you about the war?" His father counter-asked._

"_Yeah." Jeff responded._

"_I ever tell you about how it affected so many lives?" His father pressed._

"_Yeah." Jeff repeated._

"_It affected me, too. The piano... It's a special thing for me, and now it keeps me sane. Without it, I probably wouldn't remember the good times, not even before the war. Leroy Huxley deals with it differently from me, but his way involves too much drinking, and I don't want to go back to that." His father was referring to a while back when he was a baby that he had tried to drink away the memories. It hadn't changed anything, and had resulted in he and Huxley ending up passed out in an alley._

"_Still, why don't you perform?" Jack's question still hadn't been answered._

"_Well... I've had enough of performing. Every time I was in the field, I felt like I was performing for someone, even though I was just trying to escape... Performing wouldn't be the same, Jeff, and every time I think of it, I push it away." His father smiled at him._

"Nichols, wake up." Johnson was shaking him. He realized he'd leaned back and his feet were up on the table.

"I'm awake, I'm awake..." Jeff replied, pushing the man's hand away.

_1619/4:19 PM_

The town wasn't lively, but it wasn't desolate either. The residents were politely speaking to one another, but the area was shabby, the girls still yelling out their offers of service to Jeff as he exited the cab.

He and Wells had had the idea earlier to catch a taxi into the town nearby, and now they were in the middle of it, the prostitutes hollering out their offers of service to them, and stepping closer.

"Well, this is different than I had thought..." Jeff muttered, looking over at Wells. He had a strange smile on his face, and now he was walking over to one of the girls, smiling brightly at her.

"Wells!" Jeff yelled, stirring the country boy. He looked confused, and then turned back to Jeff. His smile was replaced with a puzzled look as he hurried over to Jeff, the girl looking disappointed.

"Th' hell was I doin'?" Wells asked.

"You were gonna go and take up that offer from that girl, you idiot." Jeff heartily slapped his fellow soldier on the back and then they walked further into the town, the girls looking sad behind them. Many men would take up their offers of the prostitution, but Jeff had been raised right, and he wasn't going to let the country boy fall to them either.

Ahead of them there were two men grappling each other, one of them a local, the other a soldier. The local's cheek was cut, and his left arm looked to be bleeding. The soldier's nose looked like it was bleeding, and his helmet was lying some feet away.

"'EY!" Wells yelled, sprinting forward to shove the local away from the soldier. Garbled Vietnamese followed, and neither of them knew what he was saying. The soldier stood up, dusted himself off, and then began trying to stop his nose from bleeding.

"Soldier, what is your name, and what the hell were you doing?" Jeff grabbed the man's sleeve, but he shook it off.

"I din' do nuthin'." Jeff could barely understand the man, and grabbed him again, this time by his shirt collar.

"Tell me what the hell you did, or I will march your ass down to the base and get you the consequences you deserve..." Jeff growled as Wells brought over the now calm Vietnamese man, who could speak basic English.

"You," Jeff pointed at the Vietnamese man, "your story first."

"Joe here trying to make bang-bang with daughter. She not old enough to make bang-bang with Joe. I-" The man was cut off.

"Wrong! She made her own decision to let me do her, and you k'ow it!" the soldier yelled, his face a look of rage.

"She not old enough to make love to Joe like you!" The Vietnamese man yelled back, trying to break free of Wells' arms.

"'Ey!" Wells exclaimed, pulling the man tighter. His arms were flailing, and his face was as of much rage as the soldier.

"Screw you! I'll just find another of those girls! There's plenty of 'em!" The soldier broke free of Jeff's grasp and sprinted down the road, towards where Jeff and Wells had come from.

"Damn..." Wells muttered, releasing the man.

_2205/10:05 PM._

The air outside was warm, but it felt comfortable to Jeff as he strolled back and forth at the exit to the base. His face was contorted to a look of a man in deep thought, as he remembered the death of Ring.

"Nichols, you need to sleep." An unknown voice interrupted Jeff's train of thought, and he turned to see who it was.

A man was standing behind him, a smile on his face. His helmet was in his left hand, and he looked wide awake.

"Who are you, how do you know who I am, and how did you know I was out here?" Jeff asked. He had no idea who this man was, and no way would he talk to him without his questions being answered first.

"I am Second Lieutenant Myers, your new squad leader, private. I was told my Pvt. Johnson you went on a stroll to clear your head, and this is where all the new guys go. As to how do I know who you are? Same source." The man strode over to Jeff and stuck out a hand. Jeff left it hanging.

"What about Newell?" Jeff inquired, a dead serious look on his face.

"That's Sergeant Newell to you, private. As to your question, he went on a stroll into town today, and he came back with a fucked up face and chest. A Corporal Below told me that he was seen attacking a Vietnamese local after trying to accept an offer from one of those girls. I was told you and Pvt. Wells had a hand in stopping him, and now Below's attempting to court-martial him." Jeff let it sink in. So he was forced to restrain his own commanding officer before he ever knew who he was, and now he'd never go into combat with him. He'd never had wanted to go into the jungle with him leading anyway.

"What do you mean this is where all the new guys go?" Jeff continued asking.

"They always go here after their first kill. They don't know what to think. Ever heard of the religious nuts that get drafted?" The lieutenant ended in a question.

Jeff nodded.

"They break within a week. God tells 'em not to kill, but here is Uncle Sam telling 'em to kill the Vietnamese in a war for their own country. It's a great way to get insane pretty quickly." Myers let out a low chuckle and then turned about-face and began walking back towards the base.

"Well... That was different." Jeff muttered under his breath.


	4. Disturbing Dreams

**A/N: Thanks to video games and stuff for reviewing last chapter. If anyone actually reads these, I'm looking for a Beta to help out with the story.**

_August 6th, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_1714/5:14 PM_

"Does anyone know where the hell we are?" Johnson asked out of nowhere. Myers turned to him, his face showing of anger, surprise, and a look that seemed to ask if Johnson was an idiot.

"If you ask that one more time, I will put a bullet in you right now, private!" Myers whispered urgently.

They were waiting in a small piece of brush in some part of the jungle, awaiting a patrol of Viet Cong to pass by. Claymores had been set up, and now all they had to do was wait.

"Lieutenant, it's been four hours. Nobody will come this way, and I'm tired of laying here getting my blood sucked out by these damn bugs." Johnson continued a few moments later, and this time Myers struck the private in the shoulder with his fist.

"There is no room for error out here, Johnson! If you keep asking questions, you will be out of this unit and out to the Mekong Delta in a second! I know you think it's fun over there, with those boats with the flamethrowers, but you're wrong! The more time you spend out on the delta, the more time you wish you had a damn desk job!" Myers was on the brink of rage. Jeff was beginning to fear the man, and was getting more fearful by the minute. This man commanded respect, but Jeff was losing it the way he was raging at Johnson, even if they were idiotic questions.

"Nichols, take Wells and scout up ahead. Barter, take up position twenty yards to our left. Johnson, stay close to me." Myers ordered after finishing his urgent argument with Johnson.

Jeff moved up from his position laying down and began to slowly move out through the brush. Wells was slightly to his left, and Jeff could barely hear the footsteps of the fellow soldier over the beating of his own heart.

Jeff suddenly heard a rustling to his left, and then his right, and suddenly all around him. He could hear Wells speaking to him, but the words were gibberish. He flicked the safety off of his M14 and felt the sweat moving down his neck, the beating of his heart quickening as he heard movement all around him.

"Nichols!" Wells sounded far away. He was above him though. Why was he looking at the sky? He had just been sent to scout, and why was he down? He hadn't been hit, and he certainly wasn't sick. Why did his head hurt? His mouth was dry, and he felt as if he hadn't taken a drink in days.

"Dammit, Nichols, get up!" Wells' voice pierced his thoughts once more, and he realized the man was dragging him with one arm while checking all sides around them. His sidearm was drawn and was ready in his right hand, his left dragging Jeff by hooking it under his left arm.

"_Red, white, blue. Red. White. Blue." His father muttered, pressing down the keys on the piano._

"_That... I can't sing that." He suddenly sounded outraged, and he stood up and looked away from the piano and the music book propped up on the top, above the keys. His eyes were misty from what Jeff could see, and he knew something was wrong._

"_Dad? What's wrong?" Jeff asked._

"_Son, there is no way I can sing that song... The flag is supposed to mean freedom, right? Where was my freedom when I was trapped in Bastogne? Where was my freedom when I was forced to watch Guzzo die for Leroy and me? I can't sing it... I just can't." His father's voice was a low whisper now, his eyes showed that he war near tears and he sat back down in a chair and rubbed his forehead._

"Nichols! What the hell happened to him?" Myers' voice stopped his memory. Jeff remembered no more as he blacked out. The last thing he saw was Wells' sidearm pointing the direction that he was being dragged from.

_August 7th, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_1348/1:48 PM_

"The fuck is he singing?" Jeff awoke to the voice of Johnson, who was sitting next to him. He was in a hospital bed, but the musty air still signaled that he was at the base, and not back in the states awaiting a discharge.

"Something about colors..." Wells muttered. He was to Jeff's right, and he was looking over at a nurse passing by.

"Red, white, and blue... It was a song." Jeff mumbled, attempting to sit up.

"Whoa, take it easy, Nichols. You almost had a ticket back to the states, you lucky bastard. They thought you'd gotten some terminally ill disease from one of those bugs out there, but you didn't. Apparently you got dehydrated and then you did get some disease from one of those bugs, but it wasn't a terminally ill one." Johnson stood, and smiled down at Jeff.

Jeff realized his head was pounding, and that two full glasses of water were on a table to his right. He reached for them and gulped both of them down faster than he usually would have, and then realized how thirsty he had been.

"Almost, huh?" He asked Johnson, who nodded and sat back down.

Before Jeff knew it, he was asleep again, this time his dreams filled with assorted dreams of the jungle.

"_NO!" Myers screamed. To Jeff's left, barely in his field of vision, he saw Johnson go down, a fountain of blood shooting up from his chest._

_Jeff himself was lying on his back. He didn't feel as if he was wounded, but his body wouldn't move. His hands were on either side of his body, and his M14 was lying some feet away. Above them it sounded like the M60s on a helicopter were destroying the brush around them, but he couldn't tell._

"_Go!" Wells' voice entered his mind, and he saw a helicopter hovering a short distance away. He saw Wells and Myers dragging a wounded Barter, Johnson's body not far from the helicopter._

_Suddenly Wells slumped and fell to the side, no wound visible from Jeff's current angle. Myers dropped the wounded Corporal and lifted himself into the helicopter, bullets flying all around it._

_And then the entire helicopter was a fireball, no trace of Myers left in it._

Jeff awoke in a cold sweat, the lights out all around him. It dawned on him finally that he was all alone, in the hospital and in the war. The men he knew were there from drafting, except for Wells. He truly was alone, and that dream was likely to happen.

The effects of the dehydration soon took over again, and he fell back onto his pillow, asleep once more.

_Sounds of night animals filled his ears now, and he realized he was in the same dream again. The helicopter still burned a short distance away. He was tempted to laugh, but even if it was a dream, but it wasn't funny._

_He rolled over and began to slowly crawl towards the still burning helicopter, passing by Johnson's body. His eyes were still open, and the radio he'd worn was shot up, no sound coming from it. He continued on._

_Jeff reached Wells' body and looked at him. He realized the poor country boy was still breathing raggedly, obviously several hours after the dream had taken place before, but reality made no sense in Jeff's mind._

"_Wells..." he mumbled, and he saw the head slowly turn to face him. The private's face was ghostly white, even in the direct light of the burning helicopter._

"_Nichols... Do something for me..." The dying man mumbled, reaching into his pocket. He brought out a knife, with his name etched onto it. Jeff noticed the man had already torn his dog tags off in his other hand, and was holding them in closed fingers on his stomach._

"_Take this to... Tennessee... in the town called Milan... Ask for Abigail Wells... Then give this to her..." He held the knife out to Jeff, who took it with shaking hands. The private smiled one last time, and then his head fell back, his hand still clasped around the dog tags._

_Jeff managed to pry them from his still warm hands and put on in the kid's mouth, as he was told to do. The other he kept in his pocket, and crawled over to Barter, who was obviously dead. A bullet looked to be lodged in his lower left side, blood dried on his uniform._

Before Jeff could reach for the dog tags from him, he awoke once more, and this time he saw Myers sitting to his left, a grin on his face.

"Finally awake, Nichols? We missed you." Jeff could tell he didn't mean it. All that mattered to this man was getting out alive. He couldn't care less of his men, but Jeff wouldn't say that to him.

"Yea... Sir, when do I get out of here?" Jeff asked, reaching over tot he table where the two glasses of water had been refilled. He gulped them down and laid back.

"Within the next three days, and then you'll just be back out there with the rest of us. Oh, I forgot... They promoted Barter to sergeant, and Johnson to a PFC for some reason I have no fucking clue about..." The lieutenant's voice trailed off, and he stood.

"Don't get soft on us, Nichols. There is no room for error." The last statement seemed to have become the motto of the lieutenant, and Jeff was quickly becoming tired of hearing it.

"No, sir." He responded, saluting with his left hand before lying back and falling asleep once more.

_August 10th, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_2100/9:00 PM_

Jeff looked around the tent. To his left, Wells was writing a letter home. Johnson was on the bed to his right, smoking a cigarette and staring into space. Across from him, Barter and Myers looked to playing with cards he'd never seen them have before.

"Bust..." Barter muttered, passing a cigarette across the table to Myers, who took it gladly and tucked it into an empty pack he had.

"I'm in." Jeff stood and strode over to the pair of men, who had set up the table when he was still in the hospital.

"Game's blackjack. Twenty-one is a win, anything above is a bust. We play for cigarettes, no more, no less." Myers informed Jeff, and then pulled up a chair for him.

Myers lit a cigarette and placed an ashtray on the table. The tray was full of cigarette butts, but still had room for more.

Myers dealt the cards, and Jeff ended up with a two and a nine. He groaned and asked for a hit, ending up with a four, bringing his total up to fifteen.

Myers passed a card to himself, and then swore loudly, tossing down his cards to reveal a jack, a five, an ace, and a six.

"Hit me." Barter demanded, getting a card passed to him. He frowned and then tossed his cards down, revealing a total of twenty-five.

"Bad luck." Jeff said simply, taking the two cigarettes from the two men. He tucked them away, intending on maybe selling them off to a man who hadn't gotten his rations of them yet. He had no interest in them, and wouldn't start now.

"So, Myers... Where'd you come from before now?" Barter asked the lieutenant, who set down the cards and took his cigarette from his mouth.

"It's a long story..." Myers muttered.

"Tell us, we've got time." Barter insisted.

"Well, I suppose I could..." With that, Myers started on his tale.

**A/N: Ah, I kind of feel bad now about writing about Jeff having dehydration on the fourth chapter, but it was possible back then. As mentioned before, if any of you are interested in being a **_BETA _**candidate for me, either PM me or say so in a review.**


	5. Origins

**A/N: Thanks to those two who reviewed last chapter, Imjusthere61944 and videogames and stuff. I'm looking for a beta if any readers watching this are offering services at this time. Say so in a review or message me if you're interested enough to even bother reading this.**

_August 10th, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_2110/9:10 PM_

"I was brought up New York, you've probably heard... Right close to the harbor... I used to always sit out there and watch the oceans as a child, you know? All those boats... It's what made me want to join the military in the Navy... But then this happened and I got drafted to where we are now." Myers took a pause and looked down at the table before taking a breath and continuing.

"My pa was a vet from World War II, and he urged me to sign up... The war changed him. He used to be the dad that would take me out for a treat if I had a bad day... You know, a sausage maybe as we walked around just being father and son... But then it was, 'Son, be grateful you're here and not over there. You think you had a bad day? Those men over there are fighting, and they're having worse days than you!'" Myers sighed and took a drag from his cigarette. By now, the entire tent was listening in, even Wells had taken the time to stop writing home to listen in.

"My ma always told me to avoid coming here if I could. She told me to desert if I had to, but I told her I wasn't a coward, and that I would come over if they drafted me, but not a second before. That was barely a week before they drafted me... When I gave her the letter, she broke down... Pa told her to keep her composure, that I was going to become a man... And I said, 'So getting shot at in a jungle is becoming a man, then?' And he just stared at me." Myers was smiling now, for some odd reason.

"He told me to leave, and I did. I didn't look back. That fucker changed. He used to love me, love ma, love being around us, but this war changed him. He called the protestors cowards. He would go up and speak on the stands about freedom, tell them how cowardly they were. And they wouldn't care, they'd just keep protesting with their signs, you know?" Myers paused and took a drag from his cigarette again, and looked over at Wells, who looked misty-eyed.

"I promised myself that when I got back, I was going to kick his ass... I'm not taking that heartless crap from him anymore, and I'm going to let him know." Myers finished by stubbing the cigarette in the tray, and looking around the tent.

"How 'bout you, Wells? Where'd you come from?" Myers asked the kid, who was still looking as if he would start crying.

"Well... I come from Tennessee. Ya know, the state where we're all rednecks and hicks? Well, my ma and pa had a farm there. We worked hard, but we was well fed. I had to start working at the age of six, but ya know, small stuff like carrying things to my pa in the fields. When I was eight, I started learning how to do the stuff my pa did, like the tractor, milking the cows..." Wells stopped and shifted to a more comfortable position.

"Well, then... He had a heart attack. No, he wasn't old or nuthin', but... I guess the stress and stuff just got to him or somethin'. That left... My ma, me, and my younger brother Rick. He did all he could to help out, but we nearly starved the winter after pa died... The food that we could get was a bit past the good date, but we survived." Wells looked truly sad now, as if he was a kid lost in a world not belonging to him. Which he was, but he didn't know that.

"The only reason I joined was for that G.I. Bill they were talkin' 'bout. We need the money, and if I live, I'll get back to my ma and we'll live off that Bill if we can... Maybe she'll be remarried when I get back, but that'll be a bonus..." Wells ended in a smile, his optimism stating he thought he could make it out alive.

"That's touching, Hick." Johnson remarked, lighting another cigarette.

"How about you, Johnson?" Myers asked. Jeff became aware that eventually they would come to him, and he would probably keep them up a while telling the tale.

"I... I came from New York, too. My pa, my older brother, me, and my younger brother ran a small store in Manhattan. It wasn't big, just a small convenience store where you could run in and get a couple of things and run out. There were a lot of those, but my pa always said we could do better. He was saving up to buy a better building where we'd have more space... Where we could put up advertisements, maybe become a well known franchise, you know?" Johnson leaned back and put his feet up on the table.

"Well, we did. He came up with the money, we bought that new building and the store absolutely blew up. We were nearly packed every day. Pa had to hire extra help, and sometimes we'd have to work overtime... Hell, I had to work the graveyard shift once because Wesley, my older brother, was sick one day..." At this point, he stubbed the cigarette in the tray and ran a hand through his hair.

"But then, my older brother got drafted back in '65... Last we knew, he was somewhere in the Mekong, you know, running them boats up the river and shit? Yeah, he said he got assigned to one of them, uh... 'Zippos,' whatever they are."

"Those are the ones that spit fire. Or, rather, have flamethrowers because of all the jungle on the banks." Myers answered the unspoken question, and Johnson nodded at him.

"Well, the store had to hire another helper, because by that point he was working for free. Eldest takes over when the founder retires, you know? Well, with him gone, I was taking double shifts, even with the hired guy. I often coming into work without much sleep, but I tried, you know? Then I got the letter, and... I'm here, and that's all I can day." Johnson finished, blowing smoke up towards the top of the tent after taking a newly lit cigarette from his mouth.

"Barter?" Myers asked.

"Well... I was brought up in Philadelphia. My pa built houses down there, and we had plenty of money. The war stopped that. People often asked for a house to be built, and then they'd cancel it because they'd had a family member drafted, and they weren't ready to leave their old quarters... Probably sentimental value, and the fact that they'd have nowhere to know where they'd be." Barter was looking down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs.

"Ma always kept me busy. She was always making me stay out of the house so I wouldn't know how bad we'd taken a hit on our funds. She often sent me to my friends' houses, and believe me, they had plenty of money. Certainly more than we were getting." He looked up, and Jeff could see the look of sadness on his face.

"Well... I just decided it was time for me to do something. Like Wells over there, I signed up for the G.I. Bill. My ma started crying when I told her, but my pa was... He... He was happy, but I could tell he wasn't thinking of the G.I. Bill. He knew that when I signed up, I wouldn't ever get home. The only good thing I could think of was that he'd have one less mouth to feed, but I'd never say that to him." Barter ended, and laid back on his bed, staring up at the roof of the tent as if in a trance.

"Nichols?" Myers finally got to him.

"My dad was in World War II... But it changed him in ways different than yours. He always loved me and my sister, and my ma, but there was always something there that said he regretted something. He finally told me what it was when we were playing ball in our yard... We'd lived in a few places, but at this point we'd finally found our place. We were in... I think it was some small town in Virginia, but I can't remember." Jeff paused and took his helmet off, holding it in his hands.

"He told me about... You ever heard of the 'Battered Bastards of Bastogne?'" Jeff asked before continuing.

Myers and Johnson nodded, but Wells and Barter didn't.

"Well, there were battalions and such of soldiers stuck in this one town named Bastogne... My dad was there. He, Salvadore Guzzo, and Leroy Huxley. Guzzo sacrificed himself for them to escape alive, and that was dad's last day in the war. He took shrapnel in the leg, and he got to go home. Huxley didn't though, but he survived." Jeff paused.

"My pa always loved the piano after the war, he said it calmed him. He wouldn't play or sing any of the songs having to do with freedom though... 'Where was my freedom when I was trapped in Bastogne? Where was my freedom when I watched one of my friends die for me?' He said to me when I asked him why..."

"Was that one of those songs you was singin'?" Wells asked suddenly.

"I suppose..." Jeff muttered.

"Now that we know each other better, I propose we get some damn sleep..." Myers muttered, stumbling up from his chair and falling onto his bed.

"Agreed." Johnson said, stubbing his cigarette and stretching before walking over to his bed.

Despite knowing the origins of the men he fought alongside, Jeff didn't feel one bit closer to them, one bit safer, or one bit more like family. The only person here he'd trust his life with was probably Wells, and only because he seemed to be the one who would do anything to help someone.

"When I die... I hope it's not with these men..." Jeff muttered as he stood to go to his bed.

**A/N: None of you were really asking for the origins of the men, but I gave them anyway. I always feel that characters deserve a bit of a backstory even if they're not real. If you want to offer services as a **_BETA _**For me, shoot me a message or a review saying so.**


	6. A Nightmare

**A/N: If any readers actually look at these, I'm considering a different type of story after this. I'm considering a following of the Eastern front in late 1944, Russians. Another option is an AU of WWII following an underground resistance group in France or England. The last option is following the a British SAS group. Their names, respectively, will be _The Cold, Hiding in the Dark, _and, _For England._**

_August 15th, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_700/7:00 AM_

"_It's hard to keep going when you've got nothing left to your name." -?_

"_Motherfuckers!" Wells yelled, clutching his side where he'd been hit. He fell over onto his side, where Johnson dropped his M14 and grabbed the bleeding man and began dragging him backwards, towards where Jeff could see Myers and Barter._

_Suddenly the group was gone, and he was lying alone in the darkness. To his left, he could feel a source of cold, as if he was touching a metal object. He grasped around in the dark and found a handle of something. He held it up and attempted to focus on it, but it was too dark._

"_How does it feel?" A voice asked._

"_What?" Jeff asked back, running a finger along the invisible item._

"_The cold. Knowing this is all you have left once you die?" The voice continued the question._

"_It feels like life. Cold and demanding." Jeff answered. Suddenly the darkness was gone and he could see. In his hand was the knife Wells had given to him in his last dream. In front of him was Ring._

"_This is how it feels, Nichols. I was almost done with my tour, and then I get stuck with you green pieces of shit! I was so close to escaping alive, and you ruined it!" Ring yelled at him. It was enough to make Jeff doubt is he was real or not._

"_We didn't let you die, and you know it... The only thing you're doing now is trying to get back at someone who never did anything to harm you in the first place." Jeff responded. He looked at the blade in his hand._

"_Feel my pain..." Ring muttered, fading into nothing._

_Suddenly Jeff was crouched down on a path in the jungle. To his left he could see Barter, to his left he could see... himself!?_

"_Get down." He whispered urgently, no control over the vision he was seeing. As he crouched even lower, he felt a pain in his chest, and he fell over, blood spouting up in front of his eyes. His vision went black._

"_DO YOU SEE WHAT I FELT!?" Ring suddenly appeared in front of Jeff, looking angry at the man._

"_DO YOU SEE HOW I DIED?" The former squad leader continued to yell. His ghostly face was now a shade of red, and was growing deeper the more he stood there._

"_I blame all of you." The man finished, and he stood there. Jeff then realized he still held the cold knife in his left hand, and he held it up to examine it._

"_I can give you three good reasons why it wasn't our fault." Jeff muttered, taking a step forward._

_The sergeant remained quiet. "One: You were the one in the open." Jeff spoke._

_The sergeant looked up, a glare on his face as Jeff continued, "Two: None of us knew where the gook was, or when he would shoot." Jeff took another step forward._

"_Three: If it was our fault, then... Why are you only speaking to me? Where are the others? My dad told me about this. His friend suffered visions after someone they knew died, and he warned me of it. You. Are. Not. Real." Jeff took another step forward, to where he was pushing his helmet against the ghostly sergeant's._

Before he could move the knife towards the ghostly figure, he awoke in his bed, a cold sweat dripping down his body. The knife was gone from his hand, and he could see the daylight hours creeping into the tent, and he saw a figure sitting at the table that was set up last night.

"Scared, Nichols?" The figure asked, a beer jug in his hand. Jeff blinked, and the figure was gone. A beer jug was still on the table, and Jeff jumped slightly when he noticed it was still there.

"Scary shit..." He muttered, reaching around under his bed where he found a the journal he'd thought to keep. He began writing a letter home to his parents, but stopped soon after. He didn't want them to know how bad it was over here, and they knew he hadn't taken any writing material with him. If he died, the military would tell them via letter, and that would be it.

**A/N: I know this chapter was short, but I mainly wanted to start the psychological part of the story here, and not go much farther. Once again, the choices for my second story are at the top. I'm setting up a poll on my profile, and I will start on the story tomorrow and post it the same day, or Monday my time.**


	7. Writer's Block Notice

**A/N: I am terribly sorry about this. I've completely gotten writer's block on Justified. Not just a "I can't think of an idea" block, but I can't sit down and write anything. My mind draws a blank. I'm afraid I might have to put it on hold until October, but I'm not sure yet...**

**Terribly sorry, I kept you guys waiting a week without another chapter, and here I am writing a writer's block note. If you unfollow or unfav the story, I'll understand, but I'll try and get a new chapter as soon as I can...**

**The thing is though, I have so many ideas in my head, all for everything but this story. I apologize.**

**Sorry,**

**DeltaG**


	8. Alone

**A/N: I'm back.**

_August 16th, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_2212/10:12 PM_

"_Cold-blooded killers. That's what they are. That's what we are. That's what we made ourselves..." - ?_

Jeff Nichols breathed heavily, looking around him, around the undergrowth for a source of hope. In his left hand was his combat knife, in the other was his Colt pistol, with one round left in the chamber.

He grunted and slid the mag out from the sidearm and slid another in, pulling the hammer back to make sure the gun was ready for any challenge.

"If only this shit was as easy as it is in the movies," he remarked.

_August 16th, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_2000/8:00 PM_

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

Jeff pulled the trigger four times, hoping for a bullet to miraculously appear and kill the man standing above him. His Colt, instead of firing, just clicked four times and left Jeff with nothing.

The Vietcong above him smiled nastily and held the machete in two hands, and knelt down next to him. He ran the blade lightly across Jeff's face, just under his eye. A bead of blood ran out from under the blade and Jeff held his breath while the Vietcong moved the blade lower, towards his throat.

"BITCH!" The Vietcong dropped the machete once he felt the combat knife, in Jeff's left hand that had been reaching for it while he had been clicking the pistol. He actually had ammunition, but this was more efficient, or so Myers had told him.

The knife spouted out a trickle of blood that grew as he withdrew it, and then kicked the Vietcong off of him. The Vietnamese man landed on his back, his face showing deep pain as he both tried to cradle his injured arm and grasp for a pistol at the same time. This did not work, and he nearly screamed when the American was over him with his machete in one hand, the knife in the other. The knife found itself buried in his throat, the machete ripping into his chest.

Blood covered both of the mens' clothes, but more so on the Vietcong, who found his throat spilling red blood on the collar and down his shirt, and blood covering the middle of his chest as well. His breathing stopped, and his eyes closed, his hands dropping to his sides.

"Piece of shit," Jeff sat back, holstering the knife but keeping the machete in one hand. He reached over and grabbed the Colt as well, injecting a new clip into the gun.

He dragged the body of the Vietcong into the brush, knowing very well that they would find him anyway. The Vietnamese never ran out of men. Ever. Day after day, especially on the rivers, the slippery bastards were right back in the same nests, the same hiding spots, and killing the men who had taken out their families.

After hiding the unfortunate man, Jeff sat back and recounted the events of the day, and looked at his watch. It was 8:04 PM, just a short time for the melee attack.

It had started simple, the insertion was to go as planned, but Nichols found his nightmare come true. The HQ had chosen a bad spot, and when they got there, the helicopter had barely found the time to drop them before it was hit by an RPG. Jeff was lucky we was third out instead of fifth, like Myers. Jeff had barely gotten to the ground before he heard the explosion, and then he saw Myers throw himself from the shaking helicopter. Then the flying vehicle exploded, and Jeff lost sight of Myers. He had assumed he was engulfed in the fireball and killed.

The helicopter's wreck of a frame crashed down to the earth, a little ways behind the four remaining men, and then the fireball truly expanded, taking the flames to the ground, brush, and a couple of trees.

The men had no choice but to split, and he'd seen Wells and Barter head one way, Johnson head the same way Jeff had gone, and Myers was most likely dead. But until a body was recovered, which was unlikely, Myers wasn't KIA, he was instead MIA, or missing in action.

That had been... around twelve hours ago, now.

Jeff sighed and wished he had his M-14 with him now. In the rush of the earlier disaster, the rifle had been dropped, and was now most likely in the hands of one of the Vietcong who had been taking shots at him earlier. Too bad the man had no ammunition. Thankfully, Jeff's ammunition clips had been either attached to his belt, or stored in his bag.

Speaking of his bag, he was getting hungry. Jeff crawled further into the brush, opened his bag and began slowly eating, his ears perked for any sounds in the jungle. His machete was just a centimeter from his left hand, and his Colt was right next to his right leg.

After he ate, he checked his watch. 8:32. Damn, it took a long time to eat when you had nobody watching your back.

_August 16th, 1967_

_South Vietnam_

_The Vietnam War_

_1st Infantry Division_

_2222/10:22 PM_

The flames in front of Jeff licked at the already dead grass, eating the destroyed metal of the helicopter alive.

Earlier, Nichols had the idea to head back to the crash site and see if any of the others had thought to head back. No such luck, and now Vietcong were creeping around the site, sweeping for weapons, communications devices, ammunition, anything that could be used against the Americans the next time they came to hunt them.

Jeff was tempted to rush the Vietcong with the knife, Colt, and the machete from earlier, but with limited ammunition from the Colt, the sheer number of the Vietcong, and the high-powered weapons most of them carried in their hands.

"This is some deep shit I'm in," Jeff muttered under his breath, staring out as a Vietcong came walking over to this edge of the new dead clearing, his feet coming ever closer to the angry and frightened American with a sharp machete, combat knife, and a fully-loaded pistol.

"Come here, you little bastard."


End file.
